Just In Case
by HalfwayFlawless
Summary: She thinks they're gone. After a year, she's convinced herself she'll never see them again, and pure creation has disappeared from her sight. Until she walks in on something that turns it all upside-down.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So, here we go again! Another story! I'm excited for this one. Hope you enjoy!

Oh, and just a side note: Yes, I have changed my name. I was previously Jazzy'sgirl1121008. I never really liked it; Scratch that, I hated it. Too many numbers, too tacky. So I'm now HalfwayFlawless :)

Disclaimer: Don't own Inception. Although I'm putting a team together to incept Mr. Nolan to convince him to give it to me. I'm looking for a forger and architect. Lemme know if you're interested, but be warned that it is a very dangerous job, since the subject is highly trained. ;)

* * *

><p>"You wouldn't happen to need an architect, would you?"<p>

"I do."

She says it without missing a beat. "Could I be that architect?"

* * *

><p><span>One year ago<span>

More than anything, she doesn't want to wind up like Cobb, steadily regretting the stupid moment she chose to walk away. She knows that much to be true.

A female voice announces the final boarding call for a flight to Kansas City overhead.

_I can't just_ leave, she thinks, while the vexation of being violently caught up between two verdicts sweeps under her heart and she grips the black plastic of her suitcase handle. She does her honest best to blend in naturally among the crowd of travelers. But that's easier said than done when her brown eyes are glued to the back of his abusedly-ironed suit. She can't see his face from this angle. _How fitting_, she thinks. Another parallel to Cobb.

The luggage circulates around and around on the carousel.

It's ridiculous how immaculately he's dressed after the stress of their _ten hour_ plane ride. But that's Arthur and she wouldn't have him dress any other way. If she had a say in what he wore, that is. Something tugs at her with a badgering intent, and for some strange, unknown reason, she wishes she did. She doesn't bother with the _Why?_ that forms in her head.

A woman with dark sunglasses and shoes that shouldn't be worn in an airport walks by, jabbering into her phone.

She grimaces internally at the frustration that courses through her. It shouldn't have to be this hard. It should be a fast, easy choice that's barely thought about. A snap of her fingers. A blink of an eye. That's how it would be for a smart person. _She's_ a smart person who should be able to keep walking without dealing with this sentimental mind set.

It shouldn't be this damn hard.

She stands with her feet stubbornly planted on the ground, now soberly facing the sliding glass doors that she need only step through to continue pressing forward back into her mediocre, run-of-the-mill life. It would leave her hanging on a cliff, with questions of what could've been waiting at the bottom. What if she turned around and insistently poked at her almost-there relation to the point man just _once_ more?

Of course she wonders. She wouldn't be Ariadne if she didn't.

After all they've been through together, all the unforgettable dreams and absurd paradoxes and sanity-threatening situations, didn't it put them the slightest bit closer than mere strangers? Couldn't they be _more_? Oh, the things they could do together if they combined their talents. _She_ didn't see anything wrong with it. But who the heck cared if he didn't feel the same?

Two men in pilot's uniforms stroll by, smiling and making conversational hand gestures.

Through the shiny reflection that the doors provide for her, she can see him tug a brown suitcase, almost the same size as her own, off the baggage claim and onto one of those smart cart things. It might contain a PASIV or two, but she'd never know for sure. Those magical briefcases were an obvious gift from the gods. She knows he knows she's here and that fact alone tantalizes her to the bone.

He's the sole reason she's still lingering in the airport. All the others had already left and there was hardly any hope of tracking them down now. If he weren't here, she'd already be gone with a one-way ticket back to Paris clutched in her left hand. He was all she was waiting for now. He didn't even know it.

She _could_ march out the door with her dignity still intact, and leave it all behind. But then, of course, she would end up like Cobb, always regretting this one moment. Well, not exactly like Cobb. He got a second chance. She'd never have another shot like this. This was the last shot of them all.

Or she could go back over to the baggage claim and say a good-bye of sorts. Just in case she never saw him again.

Stay or go?

She knows that once she walks out that door, she walks out on them and their lives. There is no guarantee she would ever see any of them again. The stubborn back of her mind tells her she won't. She's her, a college student with a bit more talent than the usual, and they're them, incredibly intelligent criminals with places to be and information to extract. _They might need me_, she thought, _as an architect. Just maybe_, but she knows the thought is desperate.

Somewhere to her right, a blender turns on in the coffee shop that is currently swamped with passengers recently de-boarded from airplanes.

She wants to say _something_, or maybe just acknowledge his presence with a subtle nod at the bare minimum. The impulse is fixed in her and doesn't budge. But it's just her luck that that choice would make the battle back into normal life more uphill than preferable. A bit more ammunition would be required. She wonders if a full recovery were even possible, now that she'd passed the point of no return. That choice takes away the oh-so-precious luxury of a clean break.

The glass doors slide open, allowing a fresh breath of wind to enter the building. It's warm and floats around her face for a few seconds.

Her gut tells her that there was no such thing as a clean break here; the memories would haunt her no matter the state of the relationships, so she might as well.

Her gut also tells her it was now or never, so she better start putting one foot in front of the other.

Rolling her suitcase behind her, with a death grip on the handle, she turns on her heel and marches in his direction, each step telling her there will be a price for this later.

But she knows she needs to do it. Just in case.

Just as he's turning away from the baggage claim, she taps his shoulder.

"Arthur."

He's now fully facing her, with an inquiring expression she instantly recognizes. It's the same arrangement of his features that she saw when she returned to the warehouse, the day after rashly storming out. His eyes are alight, a small smile plays slyly on the corners of his mouth, and the characteristic lines on his forehead become slightly more prominent. It said that he knew what she wanted, but still invited her to voice herself.

She wishes she had photographic memory for the umpteenth time in her life, and lets go of her suitcase to let her arms hang limply but casually at her sides.

She opens her mouth, which has rid itself of any moisture and now has cotton clinging to the top. Unconcerned, she looks him straight in the eye, soft edges and all.

She half-shrugs, as she would to an old friend, and looks up with a lit expression. "I just wanted to say…"

The tragic excuse for a smile on his face becomes a smirk.

What _does_ she want to say? How is it possible to sum up all the words she wants to say to encompass the whole of her emotions?

Behind him, she can see a plethora of matching colored T-shirts milling in a group, hastily taking role by calling out numbers.

She settles for three words, which seems to be enough for now. "Thanks. For everything."

The smirk fledges into a soft smile that gives oxygen to the small flame of hope that she's carefuly, foolishly nursing.

He nods in an equally friendly manner. "Anytime."

She gives a one-breathed laugh and grasps her suitcase with a warm smile on her lips. Reaching up on her toes, the smile lightly brushes his cheek and she glimpses an image of a serene, closed-eyed Arthur. He looks like he's sleeping, dreaming. _How perfect_, she thinks, as she takes her first steps away from him.

"Wait." The word is a regularly-sharpened knife; smooth but cuts through her all the same. She feels a hand on her shoulder, beckoning her to turn back around. She tells herself to make a one-eighty, but since her muscles seem to have frozen up, the hand does it for her.

His eyes are open again, a kindness emanating from them, and she has the telling feeling that they see right through her. _They're such a nice brown_, she muses quietly to herself.

"Thank you," he says and something akin to joy flits through her veins. "For everything."

She nods, and feels her mouth stretch into a smile, soothing away all the doubt that's worked its way under her skin. "Anytime."

* * *

><p>What now?<p>

The craving for pure creation, of course. Exactly as forecasted, the return back to cold, hard reality is a struggle.

Now is the return to classes filled with pictures, not visions, of solid, real buildings. Too solid for her taste. She finds herself bored a lot. Although Cobb had practically given her everything, in effect, he'd taken everything away. That doesn't make her think any less of him.

She used to sit here and work towards what all the greats achieved before her did. But now, she kind of has, and a good six hours of sleep is at the top of her demands list. Besides, sleep means dreaming. And is reality ever actually better than dreams? She doesn't think so anymore.

She misses it. All of it.

Her golden bishop becomes an unnecessary and redundant reminder, pressing to her skin through her pocket. She keeps it close, but has only consulted it once since the rubber wheels of her plane skidded the Parisian runway. Still, it's always in her pocket, no matter how agitating it gets.

A small-talk conversation with Miles confirms her assumption that Cobb is now safe and sound and out of the game. It awards her a small amount of gratification. She adds up all the other things that would give her gratification, but can't attain.

She still hasn't gotten a decent amount of shut-eye. Not that she hasn't tried, because she has. But even the organic dreams don't help. She wakes up exhausted, more tired than she was before she fell asleep. She wishes she could explain it in some form of twisted logic. She's more a tourist in reality than anything, as if she's afraid she won't be able to fall back asleep.

Before she realizes it, she's asking questions. Of course she asks questions.

Where are they? What does their current workshop look like? Do they always have that 'thrown together' look?

Have they done a job since she last saw them? Who was their architect? Were they better than her?

What time is it where Eames or Arthur is? Noon? That early hour in the morning that gave everything the light touched a blue hue? Or are they, by chance, in her time zone?

Does Arthur think about her? Or is she another architect among many? Some other person who happened to cross his path momentarily, to whom he taught the ropes?

Does he even remember her? If so, how well? Which moments?

When would she see him again?

The clock reads seven-twenty-seven when she realizes it.

The epiphany comes to her, piece by piece. Something pricks around the edges of her eyes and a sad smile reaches her lips, but doesn't add to the light in her eyes. She's glad that she did it just in case.

It's been a year. An entire year since she told the point man 'anytime.' And she hasn't seen any of them since.

* * *

><p>A year and one day later, she does see him. Exactly how she would expect to see him: asleep.<p>

A/N: I know, it's not much yet. Just a set up. But I have a lot in store for the next chapter. There's a lot more where this came from. (That always seems to happen to me…) Review, review, review!...Pretty please?


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I lost sleep over this one. Hope I finally got it right! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Don't own Inception. Yet. I'm still trying to track down a forger. ;)

"Ariadne!" calls Professor Miles over the din of students lumbering their way out of the lecture hall.

She modifies her course and starts upstream, back to the broad, mahogany desk situated at the head of the auditorium occupied with surprisingly neat stacks of papers and pencil holders filled to the fullest.

When she reaches her destination, he off-handedly hands her a bubble-gum pink slip of paper, still looking down at some form, his pen scribbling across the page, with his reading glasses sliding down to the bottom of his nose. "Counselor Lee would like to see you." he says.

She nods, understanding. She's been waiting for this call for a while. All the architecture majors were being summoned one by one to learn when and where they would be taking the final exam at the close of this spring semester. With a friendly smile that he doesn't see, she says, "Thank you, Professor."

"I hope you're not nervous." he says, still refusing to look up.

"For the test?"

He nods, his pen migrating to the bottom of the page.

She unworriedly shrugs. "Only a little. Although, the score you gave me on that last project was a blow to my confidence." she jokes.

He smiles and finally looks up. "It was your fault for putting a Dutch door in such an unfortunate place."

"What would you have done?" she asks.

He smiles warmly and sets his immediate paperwork aside and takes a stack of papers from the drawer to his right, sifting through them, looking for her name. "Your problem is that you have these two doors, one of them being Dutch, the other hinged," he plucks her paper out of the pile and lies in on the desk in front of them. "and if opened at the same time, would collide with one another, hence the overlapping half circles." He says, gesturing to the marks she'd made with a well-worn, over-worked, but loved, protractor. "What I would have done is taken this room, and shortened it just a few square feet, allowing for the door to be moved just out of the collision zone. You don't need any more than that."

"But if you do that, you have to also shorten the staircase above that room," she said, putting a finger on the mark indicating the start of a staircase. "Which brings the entire upper level forward two or three feet."

He shakes his head, contradicting. "Oh, but that's an easy one. Simply make the landing larger."

"But all that wasted space." she muses while frowning in genuine sadness for the waste, even though it may not be real.

He gives a light-hearted chuckle. "You can't have everything, my dear."

_Oh, but I did at one time_, she thinks, _I did have it all._ _All of it at my command._ _It was so malleable. _She nudges the paper back toward him. "I guess not."

The hustle and bustle outside the lecture hall door has lulled noticeably, the universal signal that the bell would ring shortly.

"Thanks, Professor. I should go." She nods politely, making her way back to the stairs.

"You'll do fine." he calls.

She turns just her head to smile back at him, advancing her way upward. "Your faith is appreciated."

She suspects she hears something similar to 'Likewise' as she crosses the threshold into the hall. Tucking the brightly colored (probably so it wouldn't get lost easily), 2 x 8 slip of paper into her back pocket, and makes the usual trek to Physics, planning to pay a visit to the counselor's office when the last bell of the day had rung.

She's been patiently waiting in this cold, uncomfortable, metal folding chair outside the counselor's door for thirty-four minutes now. Yes, she's been counting. The hand-made sign in the window of the door still said, "Be back soon!" in what appeared to be red sharpie. _Define 'soon'_, she thinks. Her patience was gradually ticking away. She fiddles with the pink slip in her hand, folding it over enough times so it was now extensively wrinkled, never to resume its original form.

The hallway she's in is currently deserted. The last person she saw sauntered by about ten minutes ago and there's hardly any sound coming from either direction. It's just her, her bag next to her feet, which are on the verge of tapping with impatience, and the almost-mute crinkling of paper in her fingers. She watches the thin sweep hand of the clock go around and around, daring it to slow down even more than it already has.

There's a world map fixed on the wall conveniently right across from where she's seated. She really has no choice but to stare at it, masses of five different shades of blue, green, and yellow.

She can pinpoint Cobb to be residing somewhere in the U.S. _But it's such a large country_, she thinks, her eyes sweeping all the way from New York to Hawaii. He could be anywhere in between. Thousands, and thousands of miles to choose from.

When Cobb had gone to recruit Eames, he had been in… Macedonia? Madrid? No. Was it Makindu? It was one of those 'M' places. She couldn't put her finger on the name for the life of her. His accent drew her East, to the European countries surrounding her. But just like America, there were thousands of miles to choose from.

She didn't even have a starting point for Arthur. He just kind of appeared out of thin air without any origin known to her. But if she dared to take wild guess-

_Scuffle…scuffle scuffle…_

The sound emanated from the interior of the office. Softly, but loud enough for her to guess that someone was moving inside. _He probably just forgot to change his sign_, she thought, irritated that she probably just wasted half an hour sitting there pointlessly because of his negligence. She snatches her bag from off the horrendously colored carpet and knocked once before pulling the door open enough to slip inside, expecting this to be a quick, in-and-out meeting.

"Not a word."

The words are dripping with poison ice. The ice being emphasized by the cold metal, she can feel through her shirt, pressing to the back of her shoulder.

She doesn't utter a word, but she does emit an attention-calling sound that wasn't a scream. It was a long, drawn out gasp that went for as long as she could pull in breath and still have empty capacity in her lungs. And it wasn't because of the man who clearly had no problem with putting a bullet through her.

_Totem_, she thinks, mentally panicked, _Where's my totem?_

It takes her no more than five seconds to correctly deduce exactly what she's walked in on: An extraction.

Slumped so low in his seat so that only his head is visible, the rest of his body concealed by the desk in front of him is Mr. Lee. His head is resting half on his chair, half on his shoulder. His jaw is slack, letting his mouth hang open, unashamed. He's indisputably out cold, but that's probably an effect from the line, monopolized by somnacin, that runs a swooped line from his wrist to the open PASIV sitting askew on his desk in front of him, for all to see.

She follows to sight of another line to the wrist of a man she's never seen before with soft Latino features. His line is secured to his body by a slim strip of black Velcro. _Ours were white_, she thinks. That thought stimulates the compulsion to scratch or rub a circle around her own wrist, as her skin remembers the scratchiness of the Velcro on her skin as she fell subject to the liquid drug and woke up with it lingering in her blood steam so many months ago. It never seemed to bother any of the others beside Yusuf and herself. _Must take a while to get used to._ She wonders precisely how long - measured in time spent in an induced-sleep.

Her eyes zero in on the unconscious figure that occupies the chair farthest from her. Mr. Point Man himself has his head tilted back, resting it where the two walls meet in the corner. His features are tranquil, exactly how she left them. He's at an adept repose with his eyelashes just barely gracing the skin beneath his eyes, which isn't colored by lack of sleep. His mind's current location incites his eyelids to flicker incessantly.

_So he _is_ in my time zone_, she muses, inwardly shaking her head at the incredible irony.

"Sit." The voice commands again.

There's no need to be told twice. She promptly parks herself in the cushioned chair to her left. _At least this one beats the one outside by a long shot_, she thinks, still holding a grudge against the last place she was forced to sit.

Her eyes proceed to absorb and digest the scene and her mind starts to regain its composure and come to terms with the nearly- impossible predicament.

She mutely thanks her lucky stars Arthur's here. Who knows how this would've ended up if she didn't have anyone to vouch for her? What exactly do extractors do to those who wander in by mistake?

He would vouch for her right? _Of course_, she thinks, _unless you give him reason not to. _

She's able sneaks a good look at the guy with the gun. He's tall; somewhere around seven feet, a ridiculous number of inches. He's almost bald, but not because he's old. It looks more like he shaved his head, and the hair is just starting to come back. _He looks more like muscle for hire than a chemist_, she thinks. And given recent events, it was safe to assume that's what his occupation was.

She steadily eyes at the PASIV on the desk, which looks as if it has every right to be there. _It's official_, she thinks, _that thing and I were meant to be._

By the time the shrill, beeping alarm goes off, she's settled into the scene pretty well, comfortably folding her arms over her chest and crossing her legs with faux boredom. In truth, even she can't distinguish between the various emotions stampeding across her body. It almost scared her how eerily she adjusted to the situation. Then she remembered that the scenario wasn't exactly foreign to her. Arthur and the Latino man's eyes open, taking a moment to refocus on the real world, and then slowly returning to a tall posture before the muscle for hire speaks.

"We've got a wanderer." he said.

The first emotion to cross Arthur's face is confusion. She can't recall seeing that look on him before. Once his eyes have generously graced her with a simple glance, he looks down at his line to disengaging himself.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, eyes still on his wrist.

_I've heard that one before, _she thinks. "I could ask you the same thing." she says.

He stands up, deftly going through the actions of removing his line and gathering Mr. Lee's, prior to tucking them into the device. The other man does the same while looking at her through his peripheral vision, not bothering hiding the suspicion he obviously feels.

"It isn't obvious?" he asks, quickly tapping the side of the briefcase twice.

"Extraction?"

"Exactly." he says, off-handedly; projecting the illusion old co-workers stumbled back into his life every day. Well, for all she knew, they might've. "Curiosity got the better of you?" he asks when she doesn't speak. Bemused eyes are still trained on the silver briefcase as he resets all the timers with hands that knew the motions so well, he could've done it with his eyes closed. Or while asleep.

"Well, it isn't like I was tracking you down. You actually made it very easy for me to find you. Ever heard of a lock?" she asks, for the first time in her life questioning the criminal's intelligence.

He gives the PASIV one last look over, before snapping it shut and saying, "I actually have, but it's our misfortune that this door lacks one."

"You didn't have an umbrella to jam the handle?"

He smiles, as if he finds humor in the fact that she suggested such a thing. "No. But we had him." he said, looking briefly at Baldy.

"Will there be anything more?" the tall man asks.

Arthur shakes his head. "I'll take it from here."

Satisfied, Baldy takes his cue and shakes hands silently with the other man, nodding on his way out. The other man looks at Arthur, pointing at the PASIV, "Would you like me to take that off your hands?"

Arthur shakes his head. "I'll take care of it tomorrow."

"And you have things under control?" An attempt at subtly asking if he needed to worry about their intruder.

He smiles. "Yes, I do."

The man tears his gaze away from Ariadne and turns to leave. "Till the rendezvous, then." he says.

"Till the rendezvous." Arthur nods.

She doesn't care that the man isn't out of the room when she asks, "What would anyone want from him?" she asks, looking at the almost-conscious Lee skeptically.

He opens the door for her, gesturing for her to go with a sweeping motion, "The basics; statistics, financial records, involvement with persons of question."

She stares at him a moment before she decides that the answer is satisfactory for the time being and walks out, with him following behind. The hallway has remained void of any persons beside them. "How long until he wakes up?" she asks.

"Thirty seconds, give or take. The formula we got was cheap. Wears off fast. Why?"

"I stumbled into your operation because he called me in to give me the time and place of my exam."

He nods, as if he understands the concept of being called into an educational office for a purpose other than being reprimanded. She wonders if he actually does as he glances at the clock, which seemed to be counting seconds at a normal, if not more chipper, pace now. "Good luck on your exam." he says, "I should go."

She thinks there's an unspoken, 'My work here is done,' tacked on the end of that.

He doesn't linger, waiting for her permission or even for her to respond. He simply turns and walks, and for a moment, she's the very definition of livid. Glaring at his back, she quickly dreams up a scenario where she just grabs that briefcase and runs. He's under the impression that he can just _walk away_ again. Just like that. She wasn't about to sit by and take it.

"Arthur." she says, her tone authoritative. He stops to look at her. "You owe me an explanation."

"About what?"

_You are _not_ clueless_, she thinks, _he knows what I mean._ "Where have you been? Where have you been for the past _year_?"

"Ariadne…" his tone is cautious. "We didn't really have an inclination to each other."

She shakes her head and scoffs in disbelief. "Like hell." she says in a whisper that allows her infuriating tone to bleed through. "I may not know you," she takes a breath, "But you _let_ me in. You let me in enough see that you cared more about that job more than was reasonable. Enough to teach me every last thing you knew, so that it all would run as well as you could hope it would. Enough to let me into your mind, into your subconscious. To build things in it. If that's not _inclination_," she pauses to let that sink in, "I don't know what is."

He stares at her evenly, giving no indication of shock or offense. _He's really good at that_, she thinks. A pregnant pause settles over the space between them, and she holds her ground, unflinching. She refuses to move before he's spoken. It feels like ages before she realizes she's forgotten to breath.

A cough from within the office breaks the silence and Arthur's gaze elevates to the ceiling for a moment, before decidedly setting the briefcase down next to his feet. "Go talk to him." He looks up at her through his lashes and she gets the vague notion that he can see right through her. He wasn't seeing through a façade; there was nothing faux about this. He simply saw through _her_. Then she remembers that she could do the same, should the necessity present itself. "Then I'll talk to you."

She nods, returning his indifferent gaze and setts a hand on the handle. She glances sideways at him, intending for it to be a fleeting moment of eye contact.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promises, leaning against the wall to make a point. When she doesn't move, he smiles, teeth showing and all. It was an innocent look of, _I have nothing to hide._

She wonders how many times that look has gotten him out of trouble as she enters the office for the second time that day. This time, there's no muzzle of a gun to greet her at the threshold.

* * *

><p>"We both know you didn't stick around to talk about me. What have you been up to?"<p>

"I've been around. Doing my job, minus Cobb… I don't know what else there is to say."

By this time, her pink, rumpled slip has a blue, un-creased companion. There's a check in the box next to Adams Hall, and one in the box across from 8:05 on the baby blue sheet.

"I want the long version." she says.

The mood has lightened and the barrier of awkwardness has lifted. He's agreed to accompany her on her daily stroll home, and by now they've reached the half-way point, mentally marked as a wooden telephone pole that's had the same five paper advertisements stapled to it for months. The first half of the trek was filled with _him_ asking _her_ questions, instead of the other way around. Preferring the other way around, she'd jumped in to divert the focus.

He sighs. "Okay, after the job, I stayed in the States to lie low."

"In Los Angeles?"

"No, a small suburb around there."

"For how long?"

He subtly purses his lips, as he stretches his memory. "Only a few days. Then I made a quick stop back here to wipe the workshop clean."

"There was still stuff there?" she asked, surprised. She'd contemplated going back to the warehouse, for the pure sake of going back. Who knows what she might've found lying around? She wonders if she could've stumbled upon a PASIV, virtually hers for the taking.

"Hardly. Just a few vials of somnacin, some needles and the whiteboard. Most of the stuff was gone already, though."

No silver briefcase for her. "Then?"

"Then I re-acquainted with an old contact who isn't retired, and he hooked me up with another job within a month. I've been going like that ever since."

"That's it?"

"That's it. Told you there wasn't much to tell."

"Have you heard anything from Cobb?"

"No, but I'm fine with that. I'm actually glad he hasn't. It means he's really done."

"You didn't think he would be?"

He looks at her. "I thought that after leading a life like he did for so long, he wouldn't be able to make it with a clean break."

"Did you tell him that?"

He misses a beat before saying, "No."

She doesn't bother to wonder if she's pushing it when she asks the next question. It's simply not her way of thinking. "Why not?"

He slips a hand in the pocket of his pants. "Because he believed that once he got home, he was there to stay. I didn't want to be the one to tell him it may not have turned out like that. I didn't want to set him up for disappointment."

"Isn't that what you're supposed to do? Make it less of a shock? Ease him into it? As his friend?" she speculated.

He shook his head. "Wrong idea. Not set him up like that. Remember what we extractors think about ideas?"

She thought, she really did. She could recall a lot of things. The absence of her stomach as she rode the kick. Mal putting a knife through Cobb, the stab was so clean and clear-cut. Giving Paris a ceiling of streets. Her clothes sticking to her, soaked through with rain water as she sat in a taxi cab, watching car after car of a freight train go by. The first time her totem didn't fall after their tag-along tourist was reduced to critical condition. But for the life of her, she couldn't remember what he wanted her too.

"They're resilient. Once they've taken up root, they're almost impossible to get rid of. I didn't want to be the one to put the idea of failing in his head. I wouldn't be a friend if I caused him to doubt himself. I didn't want _that_ idea to spread in his mind."

"You think Cobb's capable of hesitating whether or not to stay home?"

"He's capable of a lot of things, but I wasn't about to experiment with it."

They've reached her apartment complex, bringing the conversation to a halt. She wonders why she couldn't live just one more block away. "One more question." she says, looking at the building.

"And what's that?"

She turns back to him. "Where are you going now?"

"After tomorrow, I've got a flight out to Spain."

"Meeting a client?"

"Getting a team together."

The idea slowly enters her mind, as slowly as the sun comes up, lighting the world inch by inch. She looks up at him cautiously, as if looking up too quick would scare him off. "You wouldn't happen to need an architect, would you?"

"I do."

She says it without missing a beat. "Could I be that architect?"

"Ariadne…" he says slowly. "I'd love to have you design for me. It'd be nice to have someone I could trust. But…"

_He trusts me._ It's a whisper in the back of her mind, tucked away to be reviewed later. "But what?"

He looks at her, lips pressed together as he tries to come up with a plausible argument.

"Come on, Arthur. Would it really be so bad?"

"It's not that." he interjects.

"Then what?" He says nothing, still thinking. "Please, Arthur."

He finally speaks. "Why do you want to do it?"

_He trusts me, but he needs a reason._ Reasons flashed through her mind at a million miles an hour, one after the other. But the one that reached her mouth was, "I…I want to be an architect again."

He chuckled. "Ariadne, you _are_ an architect. Or you will be when you get your license."

She doesn't find any humor. "You know what I mean."

"Let me get this straight: You want to just drop everything…fly to Spain and- am I right so far?"

"Well, it wouldn't really be dropping everything. I'd have a day to get stuff together, right?"

"You'd be gone for a while."

"I don't care." she says, shaking her head.

Five seconds turns into ten. She feels like she's on the verge of all or nothing.

Ten turns into twenty. She's seriously considering the fantasy of snagging the PASIV and running if this doesn't work out.

Thirty. _Please say yes, please say-_

"Pack your bag."

It's all she can do to not expressively release a large breath of relief. Instead, she smiles. "Thank you."

He nods. "Be at La Hotel de Cielos in Barcelona by Thursday."

"Understood."

For the first time that day, he really smiles at her. Not an amused smile, not a reassuring smile. But a smile of friendliness. "See you then." he says, ready to walk away.

"Hey, Arthur." she says.

"Yes?"

She looks out at the street, not uncomfortably, but simply because it's easier to not look at him. "I'm sorry for snapping at you. I shouldn't have."

She's left to ponder his last words as she takes down her suitcase from her closet shelf that evening. "Don't be."

A/N: Whew! How's that? The next chapter will be up in asap, promise.

Don't think about reviewing me.

(Get it? ) )


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I know, I know. It's been forever. But better late than never, no? Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: Don't own Inception yet, but the job is set for next Monday! I'll let ya know how it goes. ;-)

She's instantly suspicious of the voice that calls "Room service!" from outside her hotel room door. For one, it didn't call "Servicio de habitación!", nor was it in a Spanish accent. No, the accent was, in fact, British and very much speaking her native tongue.

With an easy grin on her lips, she gives a quick glance into the peek hole before pulling the door open to a beloved forger.

"Hello there." he says, moving to lean against the doorframe with one thumb in his belt loop with as much charm as she remembers from what seemed like so long ago. "Long time, no see. Miss me at all?"

"Well," she says, beckoning for him to come in. "You don't call, you don't write."

He scoffs. "That's no answer."

"Of course I did." she said, taking her empty suitcase from off the bed and stowing it in the closet across the room. She loved the room. She should've guessed Arthur didn't settle for second best. "It just isn't Paris without you," she teases.

"That's better." he says, fingering through her closet.

"Looking for something?" she asks.

Taking a blueish sweater from the plastic hanger it had been placed on by its owner, he says, "You'll want to put this on. It isn't all sunshine and clear skies today."

She takes it and asks, "Where are we going?" while obediently slipping her slender arms into the jacket.

"Meeting our point man and client. And I'll tell you now that neither likes to be kept waiting."

She laughs. "In that case," she throws her bishop, phone and wallet into her bag in two swift motions, "Lead the way."

* * *

><p>The first noise to reach her ears as Eames pulls the door open for her is a jazz band, comprising of what sounds like a piano, bass and a percussion instrument she couldn't place. Stepping inside, her eyes have to adjust because the entire room is lit by candles and dim lightbulbs with nautical fixtures around them. The faded carpet looks like it came from the floor of an elevator. Thin bricks with uneven mortar between them make up the four walls, and copper piping is visible in the corners between the walls and ceiling.<p>

Someting weird happens in the area between her neck and stomach as he spots Arthur, lounging in a way can only be described as elegant, in a chair that occupies a spot in front of a table on the far side of the room. With his hair slicked back and vest partially unbuttoned, he appears to be completely at home in the secluded setting. There was no denying the fact that he looked incredibly suave.

Eames nods to the hostess, and gives a quick explanation of meeting someone already seated. He places a guiding hand on her shoulder as they proceed toward the table. Coming closer, she can make out another figure from the almost unlit corner.

Across from him, seated with an aristocratic posture, is a woman with chopped brown hair that frames her heart-shaped face. She looks to be in her late twenties, maybe thirty. A well-fitting dress clings to her body, and Ariadne regrets not dressing more formally. Her earrings dangle to almost brush her shoulders, but never make contact with her skin. Perfectly manicured hands play idly with the thinly sliced piece of garlic bread on the plate in front of her, though they never rise to put the food in her mouth.

Arthur looks up and gives a smile as they approach and seat themselves on the other two sides of the square table, the scent of buttery garlic bread wafting around them.

"Miss Ward, this is the rest of the team. Eames and Ariadne."

Miss Ward's red tinted lips smile warmly and she extends her hand to Eames and Ariadne. "Please, call me Bobbi." says the woman, with a touch of a German accent.

Ariadne decides she has a nice, firm handshake as the client gives Eames a once over, obviously not exerting any energy to make it subtle.

After plucking a slice of fluffy bread from the basket in the center of the table, Eames says, "Bobbi Ward…" he lets the name hang in the air for a moment. "Has a ring. Where have I heard it before?"

"Have your read the Munich Report lately?"

"As a matter of fact, I have. Got it off a man who was finished reading the sports scores. You on the front page?"

"I _wrote_ the front page."

Eames nods and gives a quick smile. "What can we do for you, Bobbi?"

"You can extract this man for me." she says as Arthur places a photo on the table. The man's mouth is open in mid-word, with multiple microphones representing various news channels bordering the bottom of the picture. The man doesn't look very old. Probably Bobbi's age; thirty or less. Black, square-framed glasses cage his contrastingly blue eyes which pop under dark eyebrows that are the same color as his hair.

Eames leans to pick the photo up from the table. "And who might this lucky man be?"

"Dr. Mark Fondell. President, and in that photo, representative of C.M.R.A- Continental Medical Research Association."

"He has something to hide?"

She smiles. "I hope so."

"What are we looking for?" asked Arthur.

"You have heard about the outbreak of Rechard Fever in Chile?"

"It was spreading like wild fire, no? But I thought got it under control." asked Eames, passing the photo to Ariadne. She gives it a look, not bothering to commit the face to memory before setting it back down on the table in front of Bobbi.

"Think again." Bobbi says as she scoops the photo back up. "Fondell's team was the leading researchers searching for a vaccination for the fever. Now, according to a press release from last month, the association had created an effective vaccine. A source was able to tell me that a large quantity of it had been shipped to a port on the coast of Coquimbo."

"So, the vaccine's been developed and distributed. If you're gathering information for a front page story now, I think you'd be reporting old news." said Eames.

"Who said anything about distributing?"

Eames' face says _'Go on.'_

"That's all I have. We know the medicine's been produced and shipped, but none of it has been distributed to the hundreds of people dying up and down the Chilean coast. As far as the world is concerned, the matter was put to rest when the vaccine was found. A month later, I'm assigned a follow up story and hit a dead end when I find that Fondell has requested the shipments to be put on hold. I want to know why."

"This Fondell – what's he got to lose?" asks Arthur.

Bobbi takes a sip from the wine glass in front of her and shrugs. Her lips left a lipstick mark on the rim that Eames analyzes with his eyes. "He has a reputation. His career has been successful. No wife or family that I know of. He seems like the workaholic type, though."

"When do you need this information?"

She sighs. "I have a deadline, which means you have a deadline. Two weeks at the latest."

Arthur nods and smiles as Bobbi motions to the waiter to refill her glass.

"We're going to Chile, then?" asks Ariadne.

Bobbi shakes her head, her earrings swaying back and forth, giving off a dim glitter in the lighting. "That won't be necessary. He has a conference in Hamburg. He'll be arriving in four days and staying for three weeks at least."

"Cutting the flying time by more than half." muses Eames as he finally picks up the laminated menu full of items listed in a font akin to cursive.

Bobbi gives a light laugh. "You can thank me later."

"You find the hotel alright?" asks Arthur, bringing Ariadne's attention up from her own menu.

"Mm-hm. The room is very nice."

"The ballroom is even nicer."

She feels her eyebrows furrow. "The ballroom?"

"It's our temporary workshop for now. I rented it out for this week. I can rent it again if we need more time."

"Got it set up too?" asked Eames.

"I'd be offended if you didn't think I had." says Arthur, earning a grin from the forger.

"It's Ariadne, right?" asks Bobbi.

Ariadne turns her head to the other side of the table. "Yeah?"

"Lovely sweater Ariadne."

"Oh," she looks down at the deep blue, loosely knit piece of clothing and feels her cheeks warm up. "Thank you. Eames actually picked it out for me."

"You have good taste." Bobbi says to Eames.

"Mm. I have good taste in many things." he says, earning another laugh from Bobbi.

"Here we go." Arthur mumbles lowly so only the architect can hear, reaching for his glass as Ariadne joins in the laughter.

The waiter comes to take their order, topping off the glasses as Ariadne relives what it's like to admire the color of Arthur's eyes.

A/N: Rechard Fever is a figment of my imagination, in case anyone's wondering.

This was kind short, I know, but I'm only gonna continue if you guys like it. I have other stories I'd like to write and I don't want to waste my time on this one if no one likes it.

So if you wanna see another chapter, pressing that review button is a good idea.

Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thank you sooo, so much to all who reviewed! Those really make my day! This chapter finally gets the ball rolling, if it wasn't already. Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: Don't own Inception.

"Was it really a good idea to leave those two alone together?"

His laugh is a friendly sound added to the soundtrack of traffic and beeping cars around them. It's also one of her favorite sounds, she decides. They step into the crosswalk as the signal light turns green. "You think he's done it this time?" he asks.

"Oh yeah. I didn't see any beating around the bush there."

He laughs again, rocking his head from side to side. "He'll be fine. He's come back from worse."

"Oh?"

Arthur waves his hand dismissively. "Trust me."

"I'll take your word for it." she says, and it's her turn to laugh lightly as she crosses her arms in attempt to warm them against the crisp breeze that blows from behind them. Her sweater may have been fashionable, but that didn't mean it retained heat.

"Cold?" he asks, his eyebrows furrowing in sympathetic concern.

"Nah. We're almost there, anyway."

"Here" he says, slipping one arm out of his well-fitted jacket.

"Oh, no." she half-laughs, "Don't you dare." She takes a few steps to the side to walk slightly away from him.

He scoffs and smiles, creating dimples on his cheeks. "The last thing I'm going to do is stand here and watch you freeze."

"Keep it, I'm fine. Seriously."

"Your goose bumps say otherwise." he says, not even looking at her while proceeding to slip the other arm out. She wishes he wasn't the most observant person she knew. She pushes it back when he holds it out to her.

"We're a block away. It's pointless to put it on now."

"Think of it as more for my protection than yours. I don't really want to track down someone else to do your job when you freeze to death."

"I'm not going to freeze to death."

Rolling his eyes, he drapes it over her shoulders. With a feigned annoyance that makes him chuckle, she pulls it tighter around her shoulders and quickly decides she likes the warm scent the blue pinstripe has. The back of her mind asks if she'll be able to hold onto it long enough to memorize the aroma.

They come to the hotel and proceed to the marble-clad elevator corridor. "You're here too?" she asks.

He nods. "Room 1318, if you need me."

She repeats the digits over in her head, committing it to memory, and nodding to herself.

When the elevator arrives, she punches her floor, and then thirteen for him, before leaning against the rail furnished onto the sides of the car. He comes to lean next to her, loosening his tie casually, and she's grateful that there's no awkward tension between them.

"The blue looks good one you." he says.

There's a weird sensation in her chest that, under regular circumstances, would probably be falling. But the exhilaration of free fall is consumed in their ascent upwards.

She smiles up at him, buttons the four buttons and coolly shoves her hands into the pockets since the sleeves are slightly too long for her arms. "And now?"

A bell tone announces their arrival on his floor. He adjusts the collar for her, his fingertips shamelessly brushing her throat and collar bones, and steps back for half a second to admire his work. "Beautiful."

* * *

><p>The morning is a rush of harsh light, bitter orange juice and scribbled diagrams on their white board in the ballroom. The expo marker leaves oily black marks on all of their fingers. At nine, she's asking Eames for over-the-counter painkillers to pacify the throb that had started to harass her right temple.<p>

There are pictures and notes taped neatly to the corkboard on the flip side on the whiteboard. No one could locate push-pins.

By ten, there are more discarded, crumpled sketches on the floor than Arthur would like. Neither apologize or pull back when their hands brush picking them up. She entertains the idea of holding on just a moment longer the next time it happens, enjoying the small smile the thought brings to her face.

By noon, Eames ambles in, calling "Architect!" and tossing her the travel-sized bottle of painkillers he managed to score from a drug store down the street. She picks them out of the air, and downs two without water instantly. With her pounding headache gone, she can produce a layout that satisfies both the requirements for the first level and her pride. One o'clock finds Arthur's tie loosened, and Ariadne's scarf on one of the four tables while she hunts along the wall for a thermostat to turn the temperature down. Eames tames the heat by sipping cool beer from the hotel bar downstairs. At two, she can no longer count the amount of times Arthur has pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration on one hand.

It takes them till three o'clock, but at that time, they've got an extraction plan they can say they're proud of. Dropping her pencil, she decides to leave sketching the second level layout for much, much later.

* * *

><p>It might be the deftness of their movement. Maybe she's watching them because she can't study his eyes with his back to her. It might be what they're handling - sedatives. Maybe she's sleep deprived and is too lazy to shift the focus of her eyes. But for whatever reason, Ariadne can't muster the will power to tear her eyes away from his hands.<p>

"You were right." she says, to break the steady silence that had settled over them.

"About what?" he says, his back still turned. His proficient hands slip the vials of yellow liquid into their corresponding positions in the PASIV.

"This room," she says, leaning back in the chaise lounge that had somehow found its way up from the pool deck and into the richly decorated ballroom on the twentieth floor. "It's gorgeous."

The main source of light in the room was the diamond-draped chandelier that dominated the vast ceiling, thirty feet above their heads. The floor was a neutral-colored marble, shiny enough to be used as a vanity mirror. Three of the four walls were actual mirrors, from floor to ceiling, bouncing infinite reflections off one another, adding a touch of romance to the space. The fourth wall was a faded, but lovely vintage floral pattern that complimented the rest of the ballroom with a gentle finesse.

Their cork board on wheels and mismatched chairs from around the hotel took up residence in one corner of the room, leaving the remainder of the space untouched.

Her fixated eyes finally leave his hands when he turns. "You've done better." he says with a warm smile.

"You wanna show me what else you've got up your sleeve?"

He looks confused. "Besides what?"

"Paradoxical staircases."

"Hmm." he muses, understanding. "Cobb was really the architecture expert. I don't have much."

"But you have something." she states.

He considers for a moment and she triumphantly smiles when he hands her a line.

"Don't expect much." he says.

She scoffs. "Please. I'd be stupid to underestimate you."

His enchanting hands set the timer as he says, "The same could be said about you."

With a nod of her head, their eyes are closed. She blinks them open to a corridor occupied with a smattering of projections, all dressed according to Arthur's sense of style. The projections wander down the hall, entering and exiting the doors on either side of the corridor. There's a skylight overhead, pouring mid-day light into the hall.

"Find the door that leads downstairs." he says from behind her. There's a subtle twinkle of challenge in his eye when she turns to squint at him suspiciously. The look he returns is smoldering and she's bothered that she doesn't remember to breathe until she takes her first step toward the nearest door, determined to pass whatever test he's given her with flying colors.

Turning the knob, she finds a standard office; desk, chair, filing cabinet, even a window with a view out to the street below that's being choked with traffic. No stairs that led downwards.

Some of the doors reveal similar rooms. The fifth door she tries, held open for her by a projection, hides a stairwell that winds down. She takes it, only to find that the door at the end of the stairs opens into the exact same corridor she departed from.

She looks at Arthur, who hasn't moved from his spot at the end of the hall. _Oh, he's good._ All he offers is an innocent shrug.

"None of these lead downstairs." she says.

"Bravo." he nods. There's a metallic creaking noise from behind the first door she opened. He leads the way, revealing the recently created staircase and starts down. "It's a good technique to mask your boundaries and it doubles as a way to confuse security if you need to."

"And you can add an emergency stairwell, if called for." she adds.

"Exactly."

"You ever design for a job?" she asks as they descend.

"Once or twice." he says, shrugging, "It really isn't my strength. It's a probably better the building is left to the professionals."

He pushes open the door at the end of the stairs, holding it for her as she takes in the lobby he's created off the top of his head.

"You're not too bad." she muses, wandering into the open marble floor. The room is empty except for the two of them. A large chuck of the center is taken up by a large, round table with an equally ginormous vase of flowers. To her left is a reception desk and the other side holds a revolving door that leads out to the eerily quiet street. There's a group of couches flanking both sides of the door. "You just have to expand your style a bit."

He half-smiles. There are those dimples again. "Didn't know I had a style."

She nods thoughtfully. "You do. It's very linear and precise. You just need to allow for some…fluidity. Your edges are too sharp."

His footsteps echo loudly as he joins her at the head of the room, facing the desk. "Help me out, Architect."

They both smile at the nickname and she looks around, pursing her lips. "Lower the desk a bit. Its height is a bit intimidating. You want your subjects to be comfortable with their surroundings." she says. "In reality, at least."

The desk's marble top comes down about six inches and she nods her approval. "You'll want to give the space a bit more structure than you've got. The couches could be a bit farther away from the entrance so the line between carpet and marble swings outward before curving back in."

When the alternations are made, she seats herself comfortably on one of the Parisian loveseats he's put against the wall, examining his handiwork with a critical eye. She finds there's a certain pride to showing him that she can still take on the dream space without missing a beat.

"Music would give this place some life. Again with making subject feel comfortable."

His face tells her he's really thinking this one through as she watches him makes his way over to her, to look at the room from her angle. It starts off soft, but she can faintly hear an airy jazz tune float over the room.

"You can-" she stops and looks up, as if she'll see the source of the music. There's a familiarity to the tune that she can't place. "What is this?"

"The music?" she sees him sit down next to her, resting his arm on the back of the seat, in her peripheral vision. The warm scent from last night's pinstripe returns to challenge her to not melt on the spot.

"Yeah."

"It's a tune I heard last night at dinner. I thought it was nice."

She allows herself to luxuriate in exactly how close they are as she turns her head to look at him. It was a wonder they weren't in contact already. "Yeah, it is. I thought I recognized it."

"Anything else?" he asks, gesturing around the lobby, but keeping his eyes on her.

Their eyes are still locked when she says in a softer voice, "The lights. They're a bit too bright."

His eyes flicker down to her lips for half a second and she can't help but mirror him before the light overhead dim. There's something about his eyes that are just like his hands – she can't look anywhere else. She lets her heartbeat pound away in her chest, deciding that she doesn't have to worry until the sound it's making in her ears matches the intensity she feels from it. Leaning forward isn't a conscious decision on her part, and she's already holding her breath as she hears his stop. The way -

_Ding!_

It's a jarring yank back from their little moment as the blue-eyed forger saunters off the elevator, a neutral expression on his face. The lights instantly return to their previous intensity and Arthur squeezes her hand before he stands. She feels her heart and cheeks warm simultaneously.

"There you are." Eames says, wandering across the lobby. Ariadne has to fight displaying an expression that says, _Really? You had to walk in _now_?_

"Did you want to show me that layout, love? Or are you still working on it?" Eames asks, not a drop of smugness showing onto his face, which she finds suspicious.

She pushes herself up from the seat. "Yeah, let's go outside; we can start now." she turns to Arthur. "I'll show you yours tomorrow; it isn't in stone yet."

"Sounds good, Architect." he says and smiles, before gesturing for her to follow Eames, who was already outside, lighting a cigarette.

She smiles and he leaves to once again ascend the staircase. She stares after him a moment, giving her heart a moment to start pumping blood instead of adrenaline, before deciding joining Eames would be a good idea.

"Alright," she says, stepping next to the forger. "Let's get the surroundings down before we get into the building itself. This here." she gestures to the street in front of them, "is the top of a cul-de-sac."

Eames wordlessly takes another drag as the avenue becomes circular.

"Rectangular plantar in the middle with whatever greenery you want. A little larger, yeah that's it. Okay, over there you've got a cement-based parking structure. No, a little closer. Mm-hm. That stairwell should be white. But not so many lights in there; it'll serve as a hiding place if we need one. Okay, good." she nods. "Behind the plantar, give me a-"  
>"What are you blushing about?" he interrupts, tapping ash from his cigarette.<p>

"Huh?"

"You're cheeks are a bit pinker than usual, dearest. Why?"

She gives him a confused expression and innocently puts a hand in her back pocket. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He looks at her with an accusatory expression then nods with a smirk. "Right. If you won't answer that, answer this: Why were the lights low?"

"I told Arthur to dim them. They were too bright."

He raises his eyebrows and the corner of his mouth twitches. "Too bright for what?"

"For the subject to feel comfortable."

He nods. "Ah. Is that right?"

"It is." she says, matter-of-factly.

He shakes his head and laughs. "Okay, love. What was it you wanted behind the plants?"

* * *

><p>"You work fast." she says, putting her line back in the briefcase before clicking it closed and handing it over to Eames who slid it under a table. Arthur had thrown white bed sheets over the whiteboard and their various small workspaces, effectively concealing them from view. They looked like simple pieces of furniture being protected from settling dust while the room went unused. The sheets were a precaution in case anyone accidentally stumbled in.<p>

"Nah. The hard part was hunting down a cart to get them off of. Not as common as you may think."

She takes advantage of both of their backs being turned to privately tip her totem. It was out of habit more than suspicion at this point. Reality.

"I'm off." said Eames, tucking a manila file under his arm with a nod. "Till tomorrow."

"Later Eames," she says, throwing her scarf around her neck and yawning.

"Tired?" asked Arthur, tugging the corner of one of the sheets to better cover one of the tables.

"A little." she admits. "It was a long day, though."

"Can't argue that." he says, as he holds the door open for her and they make their way down the hall.

"Are you going out for dinner?" she asks as the elevator doors slide open.

"No, I thought I'd do room service. I have a long way to go for researching Fondell. You?"

"Same. No energy to go out. It's probably for the best though. I was able to pick up a little make-up work before I left."

He smiles understandingly as they arrive on her floor.

She's takes a step toward the doors, then stops abruptly, snapping her fingers. "Oh! Did you want your jacket back?"

A look of remembrance crosses his face. "Oh, yeah. I'll come with you to get it." he says, pushing off the railing behind him.

It's a short walk to the door and she fumbles slightly with her key before getting it unlocked. "You can come in," she says, looking up at him as she pushes it open and flips on the light switch.

He follows her inside as she crosses the room to the farther side of the bed where the jacket lay. She neatly folds it vertically and turns, holding it at the collar, to find him bent over the small desk in the suite. He's completely absorbed in the sheet of graph paper he holds in one hand. She doesn't say anything, afraid to interrupt the fascinated analysis he does with his eyes.

She's started shifting her weight from one foot the other before he says, "Is this for the job?" His eyes still don't leave the paper and she's flattered that he can't seem to tear his gaze away. From where she's standing she can see her careful marks that weren't as precise as she would like since she hadn't had a straight-edge with her at the time. She remembers drawing the two-story library with walls of glass as the small Spanish towns flew past her window. It was a building that belonged in an urban city, not the rural country towns that dotted her then-horizon.

"No. No, that's just something I drew out riding in the taxi yesterday. It's more a doodle than anything."

He finally looks up with an incredulous expression. "_This_ is your definition of a doodle?"

She walks over to him, "It's nothing concrete or thought-out. It's a fantasy I pulled out of my head."

"It's… amazing." he says, reverently running his thumb over the pencil lines. "For lack of a much better word." he mumbles, barely audible.

She smiles. "That's just on paper. Maybe you'll be kind enough to spare me some somnacin to try it out tomorrow?"

He sets the sheet back down on the desk, smiling and stepping closer to her. The same feeling she had when the lights dimmed settled around her. "Only if you let me come." he says.

"You can dream with me any time you want." Her voice isn't much more than a whisper. He's so near she's forced to tilt her head back to properly look him in those dark brown eyes.

She cautiously shifts her weight to the balls of her feet and lifts her heels off the ground. His smile is what does it and, for a moment, she's sure she's going to be the one to kiss him. But instead it's his lips that come down on hers, moving slowly as his hand tenderly finds the back of her neck. She's petrified to the spot, scared to move and shatter the delicate moment.

But without breaking, she puts the jacket on the desk to free her hands and place them on his shoulders, to give herself some balance on her toes. He kisses her sweetly, and she isn't sure whether or not she expected that. She draws back to take an unfortunately noisy breath and he smirks before she covers his mouth again the instant her lungs are full. His hands drift down to her waist as her heels find the carpet again. His warm breath tickles her skin as her lips trace other parts of his face; nose, cheekbones, eyes. She doesn't realize she had been traveling backwards until the back on her knees tap the edge of the bed. Her hands return to his shoulders as she sits, and –

_Crinkle…_

He laughs against her lips, "What was that?" he mumbles, pulling away.

She stands back up to examine the damage, and finds the crumpled sketches and make-up work she had left sitting there from this morning.

"Whoops." she apologizes, picking up the sheets and quickly moving them over. "These weren't supposed to be here."

She turns to kiss him again, but senses something off as their lips meet. She peeks open one eye to find both of his already open wide and not on her. They're doing that analysis thing again. It's like he can take notes with his eyes alone.

"What are you looking at?" she asks, pulling back and following his gaze.

"Nothing," he says as he picks up the sheets on the bed and she laughs and sits on the bed.

"Should I hide those whenever you're around so you're not distracted?"

"No," he muses quietly, "They're a good distraction."

She scoffs. "I beg to differ. I'm" -she yawns- "hiding them."

"I'll find them." he says confidently, and sets the papers down. "You're yawning again."

"No I'm not."

"Sure you are." he smiles and ducks to kiss the skin between her eyes. "Why don't," her nose, "you get," her lips, "some sleep?"

"I can sleep when I'm dead." She brings their lips together again to make her point.

"The night before you have to work isn't a bad time either." he counters.

She grimaces and he chuckles lightly, gently brushing a strand of hair away from her face before straightening up.

"Sleep, Architect. That's an order."

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, sir. Don't forget your jacket."

He grabs the pinstripe, and crosses the room to give her one last peck on the cheek that she can feel even in her toes. "Good night, Ariadne."

A/N: I could use an Arthur jacket right about now… I'm freezing! I love December, but I could do without the ungodly temperatures. Hope you guys liked that! If anyone was interested, I think the song Arthur played is something akin to 'Afraid of Loving You' by the Devics…nice, slow, jazzy song. Please review! (That would be the best Christmas present ever!) Next chapter will be up in a bit! Thanks for reading! Oh, and happy holidays!


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